


Thnks fr th Mmrs

by enleathe



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, M/M, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enleathe/pseuds/enleathe
Summary: "Sometimes, he wondered if he didn't make himself miserable just to taste the sweetness that was pain."A story based on the lyrics from "Thnks fr th Mmrs" (which is really what I thought the song was about when I first heard them). My very first posting on AO3. If I need to tag anything else, feel free to let me know. I just like to write. This is my first official fanfiction (Peterick is my ship). Thanks!PS- Totally love me some Andy and Joe, so I absolutely do not mean offense with the comments I make in the story about them.





	

Four. That's exactly how many times the olive-skinned stranger had looked his way and stared into his eyes.

Although, for his part, Patrick had no idea how long the stranger stared each of those times because, as soon as contact was made, he turned his attention to something else. The first time, he rested his gaze on his friend, Joe, who was moving his hands about in a passionate and animated fashion as he talked with his own stranger.

The charades were a telltale sign of 2 things: (1) Joe was wasted and (2) he was attempting to hit on the stranger. It was his standard mating dance. Most of the time, it left him looking like a fool. This time, though, it seemed to be working.

Patrick smiled. Good for him, he thought, finding someone as goofy as him.

Cue eye-fuck #2.

The stranger's gaze was so intense that Patrick lost his balance on the bar stool, bumping into his friend. Joe made a surprised gasp, lurching forward and sloshing his beer onto his once-hopeful bedtime companion.

As Patrick righted himself, he turned to the scene next to him; there stood Joe, stone-still except for the dripping of lager from the bottom of his bottle as his handsome stranger gaped down at the wet spot covering a large portion of his almost-too-tight-to-breathe t-shirt.

"Shit," Joe breathed, finally changing his position. "Andy, I am so sorry, dude!"

Patrick held his breath. "Andy" looked like he could snap him in two with just his index fingers. He was such a clumsy asshole, and now it was going to lead to his imminent death.

So why, when he was walking to the gallows, did he find himself glancing back towards the dark-haired man across the bar?

He wasn't in the same spot as before, having moved a few feet over to let others reach the bar and order their concoction of choice. He had turned as well, facing away from Patrick, which made him feel a little less creepy.

"Fucking idiot," Joe spat as the bottle slammed onto the wooden top of the bar. Patrick flinched but didn't drop his gaze. "I can't go ONE night without his fucking awkward vibes infiltrating into my good time!"

That was a low blow. Patrick and Joe had been friends for years, practically inseparable throughout grade school. When they went off to college, it took each boy one term with a psycho roommate to make the decision to room together the rest of the time. So Joe had seen him at his worst. Unlike him, Patrick had always struggled with the concept of being gay. He hated being different. Too short. Voice too high. Hair too thin. Stomach too chubby. Hormones too into the D. In fact, Joe used to call him his "emo hobbit". Asshole.

Patrick could feel embarrassment and anger brighten his already alcohol-reddened cheeks. His eyes went unfocused as he zoned in on Joe.

Imagine his shock when he heard Andy chuckle.

"It's okay, babe. Really," he cooed at Joe.

Patrick coughed. Babe? Chuckling? He knew the guy wasn't drunk because he'd only seen him drinking tonic water the whole night.

Maybe it was steroids.

The thought made Patrick laugh to himself.

Joe whipped his head around. "Shut the fuck up, homo munchkin!" he growled.

Patrick's smile faded, his head continuing to stay turned away. He could feel the angry look being burned into the side of his head.

A scrape of wooden legs against the floor cut through the thickening tension. "Joe," Andy said, the name rolling from his lips like silk. It was beautiful. "Let's go to my apartment and get me another shirt."

His voice may have been even, but the suggestive nature of that one phrase was enough to have Joe throwing a wad of cash down and skipping outside in seconds.

Patrick felt a pain in his jaw, realizing he had been grinding his teeth during the exchange. It was a nervous habit he'd had since he was in middle school. Sometimes, he would grind down so hard he would draw blood. Rather than feel repulsed by it, Patrick always has felt a twinge of something else when the metallic liquid swirled across his tongue.

Sometimes, he wondered if he didn't make himself miserable just to taste the sweetness that was pain.

Patrick felt his neck hairs prickle. Something was happening. His eyes were still unfocused. As he began to shift the world into shapes, he found himself entranced by the copper-colored eyes of the stranger.

Shit. How long had he been looking at him without realizing it?

He blinked and looked down at his highball, half full of ice cubes but lacking in alcoholic content. This needed to be remedied.

He grabbed the attention of the tall bartender, refilled his drink, and tossed it back, gulping half of the cocktail down in the process.

With a clink, Patrick set his glass down and cautiously looked over to glimpse the stranger. His stranger. His? Easy, tiger.

Where was he? he thought as his eyes began to search through the bodies. He was no longer in the area he had been in for most of the night. Bathroom? Call it a night?

Patrick felt disappointment settle in his chest. Then felt ridiculous.

"Because I totally had a shot," he mumbled as he brought the highball back to his lips.

"Don't count yourself out before the game begins, Sugar."

Patrick heard the words, deep and with a bit of gravel to them, right against his ear. He was so stunned he tipped his glass back further, causing him to choke on the increase in rum filling his mouth.

He felt a warm, large hand begin to pat him on the back, attempting to help him in his plight.

This was not happening. This shit did not happen to him.

As he regained the ability to breathe without gasping or drowning he turned his head to where he had heard the voice. There, found the eyes of the perfect stranger for the fourth and final time.

He was handsome to look at from afar, but up close, he was beautiful.

Patrick felt the familiar guilt/fear/anxiety begin to take hold of him. It didn't matter IF this perfect man DID want him, he couldn't. He wouldn't. He's never. He swore he wouldn't.

The stranger brought his hand up Patrick's cheek, placing it there and gently caressing with his thumb.

"My, my," the stranger breathed out. "You are a sweet looking young cherub." He stills his thumb and moved his body closer to Patrick. "What's your name, Sugar?"

This is what it's like to be rendered speechless, he thought. For some reason (probably the alcohol paired with the complete ridiculousness of the current situation), he began giggling. The man ghosted a smile over his lips.

"Mmm," he hummed, putting his hand from Patrick's face to his hair, running his fingers lightly through Patrick's fine, dirty-blond hair. "You're voice is music to my ears, baby. I want to hear more of it."

Everything in Patrick stopped at his word, heart included. He wants to sleep with me. Just that thought caused a minor explosion in his brain. So it came as a surprise to him when actual words spilled from his lips: "Why me?"

The man stopped his hand movements but never broke eye contact. "Why you?" he repeated, sounding almost surprised. "Have you not seen yourself? You're a fucking angel, just without wings. You're breath-taking, even," the man stopped and swallowed. It seemed as though he were thinking about whether or not to continue. "Even for someone like me."

Patrick's thought process had been fucked the moment that voice had infiltrated it, but he realized that what the stranger had just said made no sense. "Someone like you?" Patrick's eyebrows came together. "If I'm an angel, then you're the temptation that is impossible to resist. I can't deny for you the things I've denied for myself my whole life."

Word vomit. That's the phrase he would later use to describe the shit that spewed from his mouth as he sat on that uncomfortable bar stool, looking up (barely) at the kohl-rimmed eyes of the most beautiful human being he'd ever laid eyes on.

But it had a fantastic effect on the man. Patrick felt his hair being gripped hard, then pulled back, causing his head to tilt up and a gasp to fall from his lips. His lips. The same ones that, milliseconds later, the man was attacking with his own. Warm and soft and rough and dizzying all at the same time.

Too soon, the man pulled away, causing Patrick to pull open eyes he didn't know had fluttered closed. His head was still being controlled by the man, who had only pulled back mere centimeters. His eyes were ebony, the color of want.

"Fuck, angel," he said low. "You have to know..." he faded off. Patrick knew. He didn't care. He silently prayed to God to forgive him. He knew what was going to be the end result this time. Let the good times roll, he thought

"How much?" Patrick asked, breathing hard.

The man's eyes widened in surprise. Because he knew? Because he was willing? Whatever the reason, he quickly regained himself, smirking down at Patrick before pulling harder on his baby-soft hairs and bringing his lips to his ear.

"This one's on me," he muttered. "I want to make you bend and break."

Patrick grabbed the man's bicep, almost fainting from how foggy the arousal was making him. He man let go of his hair and slid his arms around his waist, helping Patrick to his feet.

With a quick slap of cash onto the bar, the two men began a quick pace towards the exit. As the cold city air sprayed their faces, the man drew Patrick closer practically purring.

He wasn't sure they were going to make to wherever they were going.

"Your name," Patrick asked as they began to speed walk. "Please. What is it?"

The man grinned, gripped his hips tighter.

"Call me Pete."  
***********************  
The pink of his eyelids slowly let the morning sun infiltrate their fortress. Patrick groaned. Morning was never good, regardless of the time.

His vision was at half-mast as he grabbed his phone. Nearly noon. That explained the brightness of his room.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, feeling dampness from sweat. Odd, he thought. It definitely hadn't been hot in his room last night. In fact, he usually kept his fan oscillating on medium 365 days a year.

Patrick went to do a full-body stretch, stopping before he could finish. Something wasn't right. His pajama shorts were freezing.

When he realized, he hid his face in his hands.

Oh my God.

The sweat. The shorts. It all made sense now.

It had been 2 days since he and Pete had spent the night together, but Patrick couldn't get it out of his head. He tried focusing on whatever he had to do for work or the conversation he was having, but it was it was like his senses were going bad. Except, of course, when it came to memories of that night.

The smell of Pete's musky skin.

The feel of his rough fingers digging into his hips.

The sounds. Patrick could recall every pitch, every tamber, every word uttered.

The taste of his lips as they crashed like waves over and over again against his own.

He couldn't make them stop. Even, apparently, when he was asleep.

So, it seemed logical, of course, that Patrick had to see Pete again.  
**************************  
"So, what exactly does this hoe-bag look like?"

Patrick turned and shot daggers with his eyes at Joe. "Seriously," he huffed. "If you're going to be an ass, just go away." Joe shrugged.

"Dude, you asked me to come with you tonight to find your whore in shiny underwear." Being the taller of the two, he began the look around the bar. "So, if Imma help you find this dude, I need to know what he looks like."

Patrick let his anger go, but he was far from relaxed. He had been on the verge of a panic attack all day at the thought of facing Pete again. But, then again, the thought of not seeing him made his chest ache.

"My height. Black hair. Bangs in his eyes. He was wearing eyeliner the other night."

Joe smirked, eyes still skimming the bodies of the establishment. "Oooh. Pretty." Patrick punched him half-heartedly in the chest.

He walked over the bar and ordered their usuals: one beer and one highball of rum. As he turned to take the beverages away, he smacked right into Joe, sloshing rum onto his jeans.

"For FUCKS sake, Pat!" he cried out. "Dude! We gotta stop meeting like this." He rubbed furiously with his hands. "Dammit. Looks like I blew my load."  
Patrick couldn't help it. He laughed.

Joe stopped his ridiculous attempt at cleaning up the mess and looked up at Patrick, whose head was thrown back and mouth was wide open in belly-wrenching guffaws. He couldn't help but smirk.

"Okay, shithead. Laugh it up." He stood up, grabbing the beer from Patrick. "At least I wasn't the one who actually did this to myself. And over some one-night stand with a pretty boy."

Patrick's laughs began to dwindle. He wiped tears as he looked up at Joe. "Mine wasn't in the middle of a crowd of people," he countered. He had gotten himself under control, now merely smirking at him as he drank from his highball. Joe faked hurt.

"Pat! How could you! You're supposed to have my back! Or, rather, my dick in this case. How can you-". Joe's comical expression froze as his eyes locked with something over Patrick's shoulder.

He turned to see what had garnered his friend's attention.

It was him.

Pete was leaning up against one of the crimson walls of the bar on his elbow, tattoos on display beneath a tight black t-shirt. The bottom had ridden up just enough to see the ink on his lower torso. Patrick remembers it well.

He had to close his eyes and breathe in.

"Patty? You okay?" Joe asked.

When he opened his eyes, he took in the rest of the situation. Pete wasn't alone. Beneath him, against the wall, was another man, taller and stronger than him. Pete didn't look phased. In fact, the man was the one who look flustered; Pete was obviously the one running the show.

He took his free arm and ran it through the man's hair. Patrick flashed back to that night in the bar, when Pete did that very thing to him. Instinctively, he grabbed the back of his head.

Joe moved closer. "Pat?"

Suddenly, Pete pushed himself off the wall, grabbing the man's hand and intertwined their fingers. As he turned to lead him out, he caught Patrick's eyes. Their gazes held for a few seconds. He wasn't sure what he saw- surprise? Regret? But, then, a smirk came across Pete's face, and he turned to make his way to the front door.  
Patrick felt anger coursing through him. "Fucking whore!" he screamed.

Joe placed his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Patrick, dude, you kinda knew that," he soothed.

Patrick let his face fall. Yes, yes he did. But it didn't change anything.

He snapped his head back up, turned to Joe, and thrust his glass into his friend's free hand. "I have to go find him." It wasn't a plea. It was simply a statement of fact. Joe knew better than to argue.

"You do you, dude. Just be careful."

Patrick sped-walked out of the bar in time to see Pete walking arm-in-arm with the strange man. He followed behind them at a healthy distance, not wanting to get caught. The last thing he needed was to get arrested for stalking.

It only took a few minutes for the pair to make it to a nearby hotel. Patrick watched from the shrubbery as they made their way to the second floor outside landing, the stranger getting handsy with Pete as he inserted the keycard.

It wasn't until they disappeared into the room that Patrick realized this was the same hotel he had been taken to.

It's his office, he thought bitterly and with a sour taste in his mouth. Where he crunched his numbers- lovers, earnings, supplies, whatever.

Patrick's adrenaline moved him forward, up the stairs, onto the landing, in front of Pete's room. His room. Their room.

One of the lamps had been left on. He could see the light spilling out from around the curtain of the window. Patrick crouched onto his knees in front of it, looking for any cracks or crevices that would allow a view what was going on inside.

A luck (what is luck?) would have it, the curtains had been shoved together in haste, leaving a good 2 inch gap. He had an amazing view for what was about to go down.

He watched as Pete slowly worked his magic on the strange man. His stamina, his tricks, they were amazing.

Worth every penny, Patrick thought bitterly.

Then, the stranger was inside of Pete. Patrick felt white-hot jealousy as he watched, half aroused.

Perhaps it was the anger. Perhaps it was the fact that his blood had left his brain and traveled south. Regardless, he wasn't exactly paying attention to anything but the actions of the stranger. By the time he looked back at Pete's face, it was too late.

He was looking right at Patrick. And he was smiling.

Fuck.

His heart lodged itself in his throat, the eyes of his stranger burning into his own. He couldn't tear his away.

When Pete hit his high, Patrick somehow hit one of his own.

This was completely fucked up.

Patrick slumped down below the window, catching his breath. What the hell just happened?

When he had enough strength to pull himself upright again, he saw the two men in a heavy make-out session.

Motherfucker. That wasn't about me. It had nothing to do with me. It was a 'fuck you' to me.

Patrick wasn't giving up, though. Not by a long shot.  
***********************  
Weeks had passed since that night. Patrick had spent every weekend the same way as he did that first night under the window at the hotel. And, every time, Pete made eye contact with him until he reached his peak.

Joe shook his head as Patrick put on his dark clothes for his weekend peep show. "Seriously, why don't you just go back to the bar and talk to the guy?" Patrick kept getting dressed.

"It's obvious the guy doesn't want me. So, this is how it's gonna be." He put on his dark beanie.

Joe facepalmed himself.

Patrick had been sitting in the shrubs for about 20 minutes, waiting for Pete to come strolling by with his nightly conquest. It was starting to get late. Where was he?  
Patrick was getting nervous.

Then, he was getting yanked to his feet by his collar.

On instinct, he began to swing his fists. He only met air.

"Let me go! Fuck!"

One hand went from the collar to cover his mouth. A pair of lips placed themselves next to his ear. "Shhhhhhh" they breathed softly."

Immediately, Patrick went limp, his eyes wide.

Pete.  
"You've been expecting me, yes?" There was that gravel, that low-rumbling bass line that reverberated through him. His hand still covered his mouth, so Patrick simply nodded. Pete bit his earlobe. "Well, here I am. Shall we go to my office?" A nod.

Pete let go of Patrick, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him up to the landing. Not that he needed any help. Pete knew that. But he allowed himself to he pulled. Once they got to the door, Pete used his free hand to open it with his keycard, then pulled Patrick inside.

The same lamp was on that was always on. It's sick that he knew that.

Pete stopped right in front of the bed. He turned, his face blank. "So," he said evenly. He grabbed the beanie off of Patrick's head with his other hand and threw it across the room. "Why have you felt the need to watch me these past few weeks?"

Patrick swallowed. He had no idea what to say. Because it was hot? Because he was jealous as fuck?

Pete's mouth went into a hard line, his eyebrows furrowing. "Silence is not what I want from you right now."

He let go of Patrick's wrist, grabbed both shoulders, spun him around and shoved him onto his back onto the bed. Quick as lightening, Pete straddled his hips, pinning his arms against his sides.

"Why?" he asked again. Patrick licked his lips and said the first thing that came to his mind.

"Because you're mine."

Pete's eyes went wide.

Did he really just say that?  
"Yours?" he asked incredulously. Then, Pete began to laugh. It started as a chuckle before becoming a full, booming belly-rumble. "Yours! Oh man!"

Patrick was getting pissed. And embarrassed. And that was a bad combination. "Let me up, you fucker." Pete came down from his high, bending over Patrick's body, his face inches from his.

"No, I don't think so," he cooed. "You see, you're going to listen to me. Every. Single. Word."

He squeezed his knees harder against Patrick's thighs, causing a mixture of pain and pleasure to wash over him. Pete's pupils were full of anger, however. This did nothing to dull the arousal Patrick was experiencing.

"I'm a fucking whore. A prostitute. A call boy," Pete spat, his face still just as close. "No one 'owns' me. I am my own boss. You aren't my pimp. You sure the hell aren't my boyfriend. You know what you are?" He brings his face almost up against Patrick's. "You were a lame fuck, a angel that I wanted to dirty. And I did."

Patrick's excitement faded. Now all that was left was scorching rage. He began to wiggle beneath him in an attempt to escape his grip. Alas, it was futile. Pete smirked.

"You know all those guys you've watched me with? They were just like you. Pretty. They even taste like you. Only sweeter." Pete licked his lips theatrically. "Mmmm. I can remember how that pretty blond twink tasted last week. You remember him, right? Just like sugar..."

With a primal burst of force, Patrick pulled his hands free from Pete's fortress. He had just enough time to see his eyes go wide from surprise before he wrapped his arms around his throat and tackled him to the bed, his own knees straddling Pete's hips.

"Shut the FUCK up!" Patrick screamed! He tightened his grip on his throat. "You FUCKER! You ruined me, do you know that!? You've made me into some fucking ANIMAL! And these memories? They won't go away. So, FUCK YOU!"

As Pete's face grew red from lack of oxygen, Patrick felt him begin to get aroused, causing him to smirk. He cocked an eyebrow up at him. "Really? Hmm." He removed his hands from his throat, causing Pete to breathe in heavy gasps and cough.

"Jesus! Fuck!" he screamed, voice hoarse. Patrick was ignoring him, opening up the drawer he knew contained the condoms.

As Pete came back to reality, he looked up and saw Patrick holding one up, smirk still in place. "Seems I'm just a liner away from getting you in the mood, eh pretty boy?"

He flipped Pete over, grabbing him roughly.

"One night and one more time." He grabbed a handful of his black hair. "Don't worry, slut. You'll be thanking me for the memories later."


End file.
